I Know
by Pikeru's Angel
Summary: "There's a pool of something, curving in the shape a human body would at one side." Neal stays quiet on his birthday and, for once, Peter doesn't question why. He knows, after all. COMPLETE!
1. Chapter 1

"Peter told me today was your birthday, Neal."

It was a normal day. Neal had made his way into the Burke home while Peter was getting ready for work and had, until that moment, been enjoying a lovely, _silent _breakfast with Elizabeth.

Neal stiffened slightly, pausing before continuing with his cereal. "He did? I'm not surprised." He put on his trademark charming grin, hoping Elizabeth didn't notice how it was a bit more fake than usual, or how his normal morning cheerfulness was suddenly feigned.

She did, of course, but didn't say a word about it, instead smiling playfully. "You really shouldn't be." She said with a smirk. "Happy birthday, Neal." She said gently, laying a hand on his shoulder. Neal looked down, a light pink spreading across his cheeks as he tried to remember the last time someone had said that to him. He'd been eighteen, right? He honestly couldn't remember.

Peter chose that precise moment to walk down the stairs, grumbling not-so-quietly that they were going to be late. Neal couldn't be more happy with the timing and he practically jumps out of his seat, rushing to the door to open it for the agent. He ignores El's suspicious look and Peter's raised eyebrow because, really, he's used to them. Not by Peter and El specifically, but the looks in general.

Peter silently got into the Taurus, glancing over to his friend. He was… rigid, silent. It wasn't normal.

The car ride to the FBI building was silent, as was most of the day. Peter couldn't help but notice that the consultant was shaking, or how between cases he brought out that sketchbook, fingers drumming the pages restlessly for five minutes -always five minutes; no more, no less- before setting it aside, the page always remaining blank except for what had been on it before.

For some reason, when Neal gets up to grab a cup of coffee (at least his third), Peter wants to walk over and see what that sketch is of.

Even from his distance he can see the page doesn't belong in that sketchbook; it's small and square, like a page you might use to make origami. Not even close to the size of the sketchbook.

By five, they leave to go home. Neal takes out that sketchbook the second their in the car, pencil tapping incessantly on the paper. Peter ignores it, keeping his strictly on the road for the most part. On the glances he does sneak, he sees that, whatever the drawing is of, there's a shattered window on the left side of the page.

They walk in, and the kid is still staring at that page even as he makes his way up the stairs.

Peter takes a gamble.

"Happy birthday, by the way." He said, his tone not at all indicating that he suspects something's wrong.

Neal actually loosens his grip slightly in shock, and the page flutters out. Falling gently to the ground.

Neither of them move for a minute before Peter retrieves the paper, not being able to help examining it.

It's just done in regular old pencil, not gel pen or in color like Neal prefers. The scene appears to be a living room. The window is shattered, there's a hole in the wall, and it seems the angle is particularly up, as though the picture were seen from the floor. There's a pool of something, curving in the shape a human body would at one side.

Peter hands it back without a word. He knows what happened, and if Neal wanted to talk about it, he would.

"Thanks," Neal muttered, walking into his apartment with none of his usual grace.

The older man shrugged, already leaving. He doesn't want to think of that picture.

He can just barely hear the quiet, "it was my birthday" as he walks down the stairs.

"I know." Peter whispered qietly, and shut the front door behind him.

{][][}

**A/N: Wow. 666 words exactly. Creepy.**

**Ahhh, I finally published something for White Collar! Sparky, this goes out to you, mostly since it's still your birthday and I don't feel right just giving you a chapter. I know it's not your kind of story but... *shrugs* It's the thought that counts, right?**

**Feel free to steal this idea, I don't even know where it came from in the first place.**

**~Piki :B**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Yup, I decided to continue! I promise future WC fics will be longer. ;) Just need to get in the groove. _Then_ they'll get long. Prob'ly.**

{][][}

Neal always got drunk on his birthday.

It was something that Mozzie noticed over the many years of their friendship. He took cold medicine (correct dosage, but his body was screwed up) before he could drink, and that just knocked him out. Once he was twenty-one, he had a bottle of wine, or a few beers too many.

But the after effect was always the same.

And Moz was always there. To pick him up and bring him onto the couch or bed from wherever he passed out, and to try to offer a comforting hand when nightmares erupted.

After all these years, Mozzie still didn't know what those nightmares were about.

Because Neal had trained himself not to talk in his sleep. He cried and sobbed like nobody else, but he barely spoke. One word, maybe too on a good (or bad, as the case may have been) day.

For once, Mozzie arrives at the apartment before Neal, and just sits and wait for his friend to come home.

Not even fifteen minutes later Neal walks through the door, sketchbook in hand. He mumbles something that Mozzie doesn't quite catch before shutting the door. Mozzie ignores the sound of footsteps that recedes, knowing (hoping) it's just the Suit.

Neal stumbled through the door, dropping the sketchbook on the table before grabbing a bottle from the wine rack. He looked over to his friend, blinking once before setting down the bottle. "Want some?" He asked, quiet and somber. It's un-Neal like, but Mozzie quickly adjusted after the first year. By the fifth, he was the one offering the bottle, still cold medicine at the time.

Mozzie shook his head, knowing Neal would need a sober shoulder to cry on by the fifth glass. Neal nodded, and proceeded with the birthday ritual born from Hell.

By the second glass, Neal had re-started on his sketch, which Mozzie was all too familiar with.

Three glasses more, and he's crying quietly, and the pencil had been thrown at the wall.

One-and-a-half more and he's downright sobbing, completely drunk, and through it the words "dad" and "gun" meets Mozzie's ears as he tried desperately to comfort his friend. He fails, miserably, but no one could say Mozzie didn't try.

"Neal," Mozzie said, leading his companion to the couch. "What happened?" He's never asked. Not once, even on that first year, did he ask what happened. But now it's almost fifteen years since they met and Mozzie is worried -no- _terrified_ about what could possibly have happened that this has to happen every year.

Neal's start of an answer is cut short by a knock at the door.

Mozzie stood up, turning to get it, when he felt a shaking hand on his wrist. "Dun go." Neal slurred, eyes half-closed. Mozzie looked at his friend for one second before sitting beside him on the couch.

"Doors open, June!" He called, and Neal winced. Probably from the sensitivity to light and sound setting in.

The door opened quietly, and Mozzie didn't even bother to look up. Those footsteps weren't June.

Peter paused, shutting the door quietly as he stared. Mozzie just continued gently rubbing his drunken friend's shoulder as he drifted in and out of consciousness. He wasn't _that _drunk, but between emotional exhaustion and the alcohol, it was no surprise.

Peter sat down on the armrest of the couch, one eyebrow quirked in an almost unnoticeable way.

"Do you have any idea…?" He asked, leaving the rest hanging in the air. Mozzie shook his head.

"Never asked." He responded, pushing his glasses up, something that he rarely did.

"You should. I think… I think he needs to talk about it." A pause. "It would be better if it was you."

The shorter man shook his head, standing with a slight satisfied nod that Neal was fully asleep. "I'm not even sure I want to know anymore. Suit, I've been through fourteen birthdays already, I don't think I want to know the trigger." He didn't bother to mention that he had asked, just seconds before and agent had knocked, nor did he mention how it would be better if Neal talked it out with someone who knew, because no one did. Not really. If someone combined all the bits and pieces you might have most of the puzzle, but the puzzle wasn't exactly a pretty picture.

"He threw the pencil?" Peter asked, suddenly changing the subject when he saw the writing utensil, quite literally, sticking out of the wall. Thing must've been really sharp.

"Nearly ripped up that picture he was drawing too." Mozzie responded. "Did a general outline, took a drink, and threw the pencil. Took another drink, started crying…" He trailed off uncomfortably. "Happens every year. Minus the pencil throwing." He added the last part quickly, as though it changed the whole phrase somehow. Made it less depressing.

Peter nodded. "You can go, if you want." He said casually. "I can watch him." Mozzie opened his mouth, as if to protest, before slumping slightly.

"Don't give him advil or anything; it'll just make it worse." He laughed mirthlessly. "He doesn't exactly have a high drug tolerance."

And with that parting remark, Mozzie left. Even if Peter didn't know it, it showed just how much the little guy trusted him, considering Neal's state.

Years later, they'd realize that trust had never been betrayed.


	3. Chapter 3

Neal felt awful.

He felt like he was going to puke, and his head pounded in his skull with a fury.

Just a normal day after his birthday.

He buried himself in the couch cushions -_How did I get here anyway?_- with a groan, trying in vain to rub away the headache.

A glass of water was suddenly offered, and Neal took it without a second thought, the option of drugs being temporarily ignored.

"I see you had a busy night." Said Peter above him, arms crossed in a disapproving manner with one eyebrow raised. Neal knew that look. It was the "either you talk or I make you talk" look. He'd used it after Kate died too.

Neal moaned again, hoping to gain a bit of sympathy and a "we'll talk later" as he sipped his water. "Yeah. Remind me never to drink almost seven glasses of wine again." He joked weakly.

"What happened?" Now there's the million-dollar question.

So Neal does what Neal does (second) best; he deflects.

"Peter, I-I'm really tired," he said quietly, putting the glass on the table and laying back down. "Can we talk about this later? When the hangover's gone, for instance." Because if they didn't talk right then, while memories were still fresh, they might not talk about it at all. At least until next year, and maybe Neal would be ready by then. Maybe.

Probably not.

One of the bad parts about beings friend with Peter is that he doesn't take a deflection that easily.

"No, I think we need to talk now." The FBI agent placed a hand on his friends shoulder awkwardly; he wasn't good at stuff like this. "Mozzie said this has been going on since he met you. I know a bit, but maybe you should give me the full story." Neal stiffened, biting his lip.

"Why can't this wait until tomorrow?" He asked quietly.

"Because you're deflecting and I don't want to have to wait another year for you to talk about this," Peter wanted to say.

"Because it's been twenty years and it's still affecting you," is what he actually said.

Almost automatically, Neal corrected him. "Nineteen. It happened when I was nine, so it's nineteen years." He muttered.

"Okay, _nineteen_ years and it's still affecting you." Peter agreed. "Now tell me what's wrong." His tone was gentle, incredibly so, and very different from his Agent Burke tone. Neal noticed the change, not that it made much of a difference.

"Tomorrow," he promised. "I'll tell you tomorrow." And that was the first time Neal lied to Peter. Not just giving him a false assumption, but actually _lying _to him. He'd never felt that bad afterwards though.

"Neal, don't lie to me." Peter said gently, trying to ignore the hurt that flickered on the younger man's face. "Just tell me what happened."

Slowly, not to jar his head more than needed, Neal sat up, avoiding the agent's eyes. "Fine." He mumbled. Neither of them were completely sure what the "fine" was aimed at.

Pater sat down beside him, one arm wrapped around the consultant's shoulders. "Ready when you are."

Neal gulped, blinking rapidly as memories were suddenly pushed to the surface. "I was nine when it happened." He knew he was close to tears already. Barely five seconds and not one drink to prompt it and he's already about to cry.

His step-father would call him pathetic.

But that's a different story.

One Neal's more than willing to take to the grave.

"I-I was drawing in the front room while my dad was watching the game. Just a normal Saturday, right?" Neal's voice broke, and Peter almost cringed. Neal's voice had never taken that tone, not even while he was grieving for Kate. "There-there was a drive by shooting in the neighborhood. Mom was out for the day, so it was just us in the house. I-I heard the gunshots, and d-dad stood up…" He allowed himself a small sob, placing his head in his hands. "Next th-thing I knew he was o-on the ground." Another quiet sob, as though he were trying to hold back. "There w-was s-s-so much b-blood. I-I didn't k-know what t-to do." That's where he broke.

Nineteen years of undelt with issues (at least one of them) and the much too fresh images were too much. It was the second time Neal had cried because of what happened. Peter simply sat with him, rubbing the conman's shoulder soothingly and pulling him in to a one-armed hug.

"M-mom got h-home a little w-while later. Sh-she called th-the police." He choked back a sob, and for a second Peter didn't think he would continue. Honestly, he wasn't even sure if Neal should.

"She re-remarried the next year. I-It was like m-my dad never existed." Peter hushed him gently, ignoring the ever growing awkwardness that seemed to come with situations like this when he was involved.

"Neal, stop." Peter's words were quiet, and most would say soothing. The younger man could barely hear him over his own memories.

But stop he did. The words tumbling out of his mouth -seemingly of their own accord- halted. For one blissful moment, his mind stopped working too.

Moment's pass though.

The younger man sobbed quietly, his tears finally dieing down. "Sh-she was trying to replace him." He said quietly. "Everyone k-knew it, except h-her. I d-don't think she e-ever did." Peter soothingly rubbed his partners back, thanking the Heaven's above Neal didn't continue. Because if he didn't continue he got everything he wanted to get out, out. So maybe, just maybe, his birthday wouldn't be the same the next year.

Maybe.

"You know," Peter said thoughtfully after a long moment of silence. "I've seen sketches of your dad." Neal stiffened slightly. "While you were on the run. Whenever we got to one of your hideouts there would be sketches scattered everywhere. I never realized it was him. It was actually that trail of pictures that helped us catch you."

He smiled fondly for a moment, and Neal looked at his with puzzled re-rimmed eyes.

"I'm glad we did."

"You know what?" Neal whispered, eyes closing as his head rested on the agents shoulder. "Me too."

{][][}

**A/N: Oh my gosh. I just realized something. This is my first ever completed chapter fic on this site. Ever.**

***jaw drops***

**I've only completed one story before this, and that was when I was nine and it is _long gone_. This-this is amazing.**

**I'd like to thank the Academy (of the Star Trek variety) for no apparent reason other than it's always in speeches like this, as well as my amazing reviewers! I'd also like to give special thanks to Sparky, whom this fic was made for in the first place as a birthday gift. *releases confettii***

**Whoo hoo! First completed fic! All reviewers will find e-cookies on their doorsteps!**

**~Piki :B**


End file.
